One sleepin' beauty
by The Libran Iniquity
Summary: Sequel to 'Two drunken Bonds'. Malcolm wakes up and he and Trip have to face the music... okay, Malcolm has to face Trip singing as well as an early shift. Poor guy... (NON-SLASH, COMPLETED)


A/N: Whee. This is now a trilogy. And now the trilogy is complete. For the final time, my profile page has the disclaimer that prevents lawsuits as I still own zip except for the ale … *collapses in drunken heap*

*sigh* I had hoped to escape this …  
Reviewer Response to _Two drunken Bonds_:-  
**Phaser Lady**:- Ah. TLW was meant to be pure humour, whereas the following parts have bits of other genres in as well, plus more focus on the friendship level of things. Hope this helps  
**TripGirl05**:- Nice nit-pick. Well, we know (from _Silent Enemy_, primarily) that Malcolm and his father don't get on so well, so I doubt he'd refer to him in that way. Besides, I like your theory, it fits in with mine; his grandfather did indeed deliver him (in my reality, at least), and his name was Stuart. It's the same with me; I have three, maybe four, different Roberts in my family, on both sides. The same could apply to Malcolm's family without too much fuss  
**Ariana**:- You're not drunk? Have some ale … that is, if Trip and Malcolm haven't had it all already …  
**Elf**:- Well, enjoy this, there will be more different stuff soon (!), and see TripGirl's response for extra clarity  
**TrekRos**:- Thank you, it's nice to know two drunken officers can be appreciated so much ;)  
**Samantha Quinn**:- And who says I'm not a 'shipper? There's an alternative ending to TLW stored on my computer. All who would like to see happy, sappy angst, let me know!  
**Spookyslayer**:- You're quite welcome for the *cough*fact*cough* back there! Glad ye approved!  
**Orion9**:- I guess it's true that opposites attract … my friend and I have known each other years and we have virtually nothing in common; looks like the same applies for these two as well …  
**Chaotic Boredom**:- Maybe the Canadians just haven't revealed themselves yet?  
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When Malcolm came round, the first thing he was aware of was the fact that he was no longer on the chair. In fact, he wasn't even sitting up. He was lying on the floor, with something soft and squishy underneath his head.

And his head hurt. Not good.

The second thing he was aware of was singing. More precisely, a drunken Trip singing...

"What shall we do with the drunken sailor, what shall we do with the drunken sailor, what shall we do with the drunken sailor early in the mornin'?"

Malcolm groaned and put a hand to his head. The singing … it was painful, and his head hurt. He tested his voice. "Trip?" he croaked. Come to think of it, his throat hurt as well.

"Mornin', Loo-tenant," Trip got up from his seat and squatted down next to him. "Have a nice sleep?"

"Morning? It's morning already?" Malcolm couldn't help it; he panicked.

Trip merely chuckled. "S'only about three in the mornin' by local time. We're not due back to Enterprise for another five hours or so."

Slowly the fog lifted from Malcolm's brain, and hazy memories presented themselves. He vaguely recalled drinking ale with Commander Tucker and talking about women, cannons and his grandfather.

His dead grandfather; Stuart Coghlan had died shortly after his sister's birth, when Malcolm was still a small child.

Slowly he lifted himself into a sitting position. "Why are you awake at such an early hour, then?" he asked suspiciously.

Trip shrugged by way of response. "Couldn't sleep," he replied. "And you were talkin' in your sleep. Very distractin'."

"Really? What was I saying?" Despite the headache, Malcolm was curious to find out; as far as he was aware, he'd never talked in his sleep before.

Trip shook his head, apparently in disbelief. "For a while, you were mutterin' about upgrades to the phase cannons. Seriously, Loo-tenant, I know you're dedicated to your post but talkin' about it in your _sleep_ …"

"Some would call it being professional," Malcolm remarked calmly.

"Uh-huh. And some would take it as a sign you're overworkin' yourself. You need to relax."

"And what do you call this?" Malcolm asked, indicating the room they were in. "After all, it's hardly another double shift in the armoury. Is it?" He couldn't help it; he glared, which only set his headache off again, and he grimaced from the unexpected pain.

Trip chuckled. "And I thought you said the British can hold their alkyhole," he grinned, then stood up and disappeared from Malcolm's line of sight. A couple of minutes later he returned and offered a wet cloth. "This should help some."

"Thanks." Malcolm pressed the cloth to his head, and winced slightly; it was very cold, but the headache was indeed subsiding, which was a relief. "How - how long was I asleep?" he asked.

Trip pondered for a moment. "Couple hours. I think."

"That long?"

"Hey, I didn't want to be the one wakin' you up. 'Sides, you did look kinda peaceful. Almost sweet," Trip grinned.

"That's just what I wanted to hear, Trip, thank you," Malcolm replied acerbically. "Enterprise's armoury officer, the chief of flipping security, _sweet_. It almost doesn't bear thinking about."

The irrepressible commander merely chuckled. "Whatever you say, Sleepin' Beauty."

"Don't. Call me. That," Malcolm growled. Slowly, he eased himself up off the floor.

Trip held up his hands in self-defence. "Hey, just makin' a logical observation."

Malcolm smiled. Granted it was small, but it still a smile nevertheless. "So, if I'm Sleeping Beauty, doesn't that make you my Prince Charming?" he asked.

"Jus' hand me the hat and steed and we'll be out of here, m' dear," Trip grinned back. He offered Malcolm his hand and pulled him up until they were both standing. "Can't really picture you in a dress, though," he frowned, looking the lieutenant up and down.

"I won't lower myself to that one, thank you very much," Malcolm replied coolly; the mental image of him wearing something feminine directly out of the sixteenth century scared him a little, if truth be told. Reed men after all, did _not_ belong in frilly ballgowns.

Trip turned and surveyed the room. There was, in addition to the chairs and assorted empty bottles, a bed.

Bed, singular.

One bed.

A _king-size_ bed.

Malcolm followed his gaze and saw the bed. He then looked at Trip; he was pretty sure that the slightly shocked look on the commander's face was mirrored on his own quite easily. A king-size bed. How could they have not noticed that before?

While he stood there, however, Trip was already moving. He removed two blankets and a pile of pillows off the bed and dumped them in a big pile in the corner of the room. "C'mon, Loo-tenant," he said, bending over the pile and arranging them into sleeping bag-style formations. "No use us arguin' over the bed."

That was a relief. Thankfully, Malcolm moved over and helped him. A few minutes later they were snugly tucked into 'beds' on the floor. Comfortable enough, he supposed, and a much better alternative to sharing a bed with Trip. The lieutenant knew that maybe half the women on his armoury team were besotted with the man, but personally he couldn't see the attraction.

"Sleep well, Sleepin' Beauty," Trip said, interrupting him.

"Good night, Commander." Malcolm closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he found himself staring into Charles Tucker's grinning face.

"I knew it," he said. "I just knew it. I've died in my sleep from blood-alcohol poisoning and I've gone to hell."

"Not so lucky," Trip replied. "By my estimate, we've got about a half hour before Jon starts sendin' out search parties for us."

"What?" Malcolm panicked and tried to extricate himself from the makeshift bed; however, Trip kept him pinned there.

"Calm down already," he said seriously. "Look, we're not late, but if we're not careful we'll have the sub-commander on our tails." That said, he helped Malcolm out of the blankets and into a standing position again.

Light filtered in through one of the windows, casting shadows on the empty ale bottles. "We really did get drunk, didn't we?" Trip remarked, mentally counting the number of bottles; thirteen.

"Drunk as judges," Malcolm remarked.

Trip looked at him. "What's that, some British sayin'?"

He shrugged. "I have no idea, but it's less insubordinate than saying 'drunk as a starship captain'."

"There is that."

"Indeed."

"Think we should go find the others?"

"Definitely."

The shuttlepod was a short walk away from where the two officers had spent the night, and from a distance Malcolm could already make out Travis Mayweather and Captain Archer standing beside it.

As they got closer, Trip pulled him to one side. "Look," he said, "I … if you ever need anythin', you know, someone to talk to, company, whatever - well, you know where Engineerin' is."

Malcolm gave him a wry smile. "After last night, I may just take you up on that."

"I'm countin' on it," Trip replied. "You goin' to see Phlox about that headache of yours?"

"And risk being forced to spend another night in Sickbay? I think I'd rather take my chances against a Klingon warship."

Trip laughed. "You'd win that one every time."

"Thanks."

The pair resumed the walk towards the shuttlepod. "You know," Trip said conversationally," I heard somethin' else about you as well."

"And what would that be?"

"Well, you know Ensign Cutler? She's been tellin' people that Phlox is gettin' so sick of you tryin' to ignore _professional_ medical advice that he's rigged up a special hypospray 'specially for you."

"Really?"

"Yep. Apparently it's potent enough to knock you out for about three days runnin', so I'd be careful if I were you."

Malcolm grinned at the absurdity of the idea. "Engineering, you said?" he asked.

"Anytime," Trip replied, and together the two Starfleet officers climbed inside Shuttlepod One.


End file.
